


Change for the Better

by Dashiell_Mirai



Category: Original Work
Genre: (More plot than porn really), Loving relationships, M/M, Musicians (freeform), Porn With Plot, Progressive Rock (freeform), Trans Male Character, Written while extremely sleep-deprived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 05:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dashiell_Mirai/pseuds/Dashiell_Mirai
Summary: Mark Aston Verity was one of the unlucky (or very lucky, depending on your perspective) few who had managed to get to the age of thirty without anything particularly interesting happening to him. He had always been a tad bit resentful of this, and was planning a trip to Barbados with one of his friends from university. But then a half-naked rockstar had fallen through the ceiling of his flat, and, suddenly, Barbados didn't seem nearly so interesting.





	1. Plaster Dust

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'd like to point out that the summary makes this story out to be a lot less rubbish than it actually is. I had this idea kicking around in my brain for about a week, but I kept being like, "Oh, no, I can't write that, I've got two other stories to write for." Well, yesterday I got put on a bus and sent to an event with no wifi and relatively little for me to do. I had nothing but my iPad, three hours of sleep, and more cans of Red Bull than it should be legal to buy at once. Apparently, this gave me magical powers of writing, and, although it turned out pretty poorly, I wrote the entire thing at the event. Except for the NSFW bit, I wrote that when I got home, not in public like a bloody heathen.  
> Enjoy. You probably won't, but who knows?

Mark Aston Verity was one of the unlucky (or very lucky, depending on your perspective) few who had managed to get to the age of thirty without anything particularly interesting happening to him. He had always been a tad bit resentful of this, and was planning a trip to Barbados with one of his friends from university. But then a half-naked rockstar had fallen through the ceiling of his flat, and, suddenly, Barbados didn't seem nearly so interesting.

Of course, he didn't immediately know the man was a rockstar, it wasn't like people came with neatly written little signs, but the long, wavy hair, partially-done white creme makeup and black eyeshadow, and mostly-unzipped jumpsuit seemed to suggest that he was at least in the vicinity. He also looked rather scared and confused as to why he was suddenly sitting in the middle of a man's flat on a pile of cracked plaster.

"Um," said Mark eventually. "This may be a bit of a stupid question, but who are you and why are you in my sitting room?"

The other man seemed to recover a little, and stood up gingerly. "Oh. Dear. That's torn my suit quite badly," he muttered, and then looked at Mark more directly. "Yes. Sorry. It isn't a stupid question at all. I happen to be wondering why I'm in your sitting room quite a bit right now. I assume it's the fault of some sort of drastic failure of the building code. You should consider moving out."

Mark nodded slowly, still not any less confused. This man was certainly strange. He was one of those men who often bumped his head getting into cars, and had the physicality of an elongated heron. His open jumpsuit seemed to reveal that he'd been smuggling a toastrack in shrink-wrap. He had a deep-ish voice that almost completely contradicted his appearance, and an oddly old-fashioned way of phrasing things.

"Well. As for who I am, I'm not nearly so unsure on the matter, as it hasn't got anything to do with the building code. I'm Florence. Florence Whiting, formerly of Leicestershire." He stuck his hand out awkwardly.

Mark shook it, and felt the urge to laugh. There wasn't anything funny about his name, just the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Well, um, it was... unexpected to meet you. Uh, just out of curiosity, what am I meant to do about my ceiling?"

Florence shifted back and forth on his long, gawky legs. "Er. I'll tell you what, shall we meet sometime after the rehearsal? We haven't got much money, but we're doing a concert soon, and I may be able to use some of the proceeds."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's... wildly unnecessary, I highly doubt it was your fault that the ceiling caved in."

"No, no, I insist. Er. Here." He dug around in the little coffee canister full of pencils and pens sitting on the table, managed to find a piece of stationery. He scrawled something on it, looked at his phone, and got a panicked look. "Oh. Dear. I, um, I must be going. We've got the venue ready and everything. Give me a call when you'd like, alright?"

And with a furtive glance in either direction, he was gone from the flat, leaving Mark in a slight daze and a hail of plaster dust.

"Sure. Might as well," he muttered.


	2. "So... why are we here, then?"

Mark scrolled through his texts idly, sitting in an uncomfortable chair at a cafe. He'd texted the number Florence had given him with the awkward greeting of, "Hello, this is Mark Verity." Then, because he realised the other man had never gotten his name, followed it up with, "You know. The bloke whose roof you fell through this morning." He'd gotten the brief reply of, "Would you like to meet for lunch at one o'clock?" to which he'd responded that, yes, he would, if the Mod coffee shop on Inman Road would do.

There had been no response to that, which led Mark to worry slightly. It was presently ten minutes after one o'clock, which was the point at which the suspicion that someone is late should begin. Five minutes is mostly socially acceptable, but ten generally begins to toe the line. He bent forward to shade his phone so he could see better whilst he tapped out a question to Florence, taking a sip from his coffee.

"Er. Hullo," came a newly familiar voice from behind him.

Mark nearly dropped his phone and his drink simultaneously. "Oh, my god. Please don't do that."

This seemed to affect Florence more than it would the average person. He began to apologise profusely, and nearly dropped his own tea. "I'm terribly sorry, that wasn't on purpose, oh, and I'm sorry I'm late..."

Mark cut him off. "Whoa, whoa, please calm down. You aren't really late, and besides, it isn't like this is actually important."

Florence did seem to calm down a bit. He sat down on the opposite side of the table, at which point Mark noticed that he was no longer in the getup he'd been in that morning. All the black and white makeup had been scrubbed from his face, which was rather pale in any case, and he was wearing a jeans and a sweater, despite the unusually clement weather.

"Um. Sorry. Right. Why isn't it important?"

Mark sighed. "I can pay for the bloody ceiling, but I won't. I'm moving out. I'd been planning to do it for quite a while. Me flat, quite honestly, is absolute shit."

Florence smiled around a mouthful of tea. Mark continued. "I actually have grounds to sue my landlord for not maintaining the building, but that's too much of a faff. So can you, mind you, since you were actually hurt by the collapsing ceiling."

Florence shook his head. "What, sue? Oh, no. I'd feel terrible about it. Besides, I haven't actually got the time. Rehearsals and all." He waved his hand indistinctly.

They stared blankly at each other for an awkward few seconds. "Um. So... why are we here, then?" asked Mark slowly.

"Well, I'm here for lunch," remarked Florence in such a way that made him sound unsure about it.

"Right. Suppose I am too, then."

"Oh, it's quite perfectly alright if you don't want to stay. You needn't just do something because I'm doing it, I mean, I'm not really anyone to you, I'd be worried if I was..." He cut this off with a nervous laugh.

Mark shrugged. "Don't see why not. When two people meet who get on rather well, usually the first thing they do isn't avoid each other."

This got a genuine chuckle out of Florence. "D'you know, you're right. Don't precisely know what I was thinking." He rapped his knuckles absently on the table. "Well, Mark- It's Mark, isn't it?" He looked oddly terrified at the thought of not getting his name right.

Mark nodded. "That it is."

He let out a breath of relief. "Oh. Good. Well, anyhow, I'm going to go to the counter and see if they've got anything that isn't a sandwich. It's practically all we eat during rehearsals," he said, by way of explanation.

"Well, I'd be delighted to join you," said Mark with a slight and inexplicable smile.


	3. Nile River Delta

The building in which Florence was rehearsed with his band, which was called Nile River Delta, was a rather nondescript concrete block. The place looked like it had been built as per the city council, because it had. A distinctly humourless plaque informed him that it was the Josep Bharagani Centre for the Arts.

Mark decided that, whoever this Bharagani fellow had been, he would probably hate this sort of junior industrial estate. He walked in the main entrance, where a receptionist called Gloria looked at him once, then proceeded to completely ignore him. He felt as if he would say something, so he said, "Um." She didn't budge. He cleared his throat, then, after being ignored again, decided there was nothing for it, really, and just went straight into the building.

The hallways were very dim, and the carpet was so thin and cheap that it barely qualified as carpet to begin. Was it suite 142 they were in, or 124? He pulled out his phone, and checked his texts again. Oh, it was neither. Good thing he'd checked.

He put his ear to the door of suite 125. He wasn't precisely sure why, but, sure enough, he heard the bish-bosh noises of a drumset, overlaid with some hazy synthesised humming which sounded suspiciously like a Mellotron. He would've waited for them to finish, but didn't even to wait that long, because the rhythm the drums were keeping seemed to trip and tell, and the entire band clattered to a halt behind it.

He heard someone say, "Sorry, I've buggered the time change again..." There was a flood of speech, and an inadvertent rattle of cymbals.

Mark chose that moment to knock very concisely on the door, and wisely decided to take his ear off of it. He fully expected Florence to answer it, but instead a very intimidating bloke did.

This man was much taller than Mark, but, then again, most men were. His intimidatingness sprung solely from the expression he wore, which was one made of pure "U wot m8". Mark didn't even have to look to tell that he had a switchblade in his pocket. He squinted at Mark, then shouted over his shoulder, "Oi! Florence! Is this that Mark bloke you're seein'?"

Mark's mouth fell open. "Sorry, what?"

"Let him in, Colin," came a voice from inside the room. Mark walked in, still slightly stunned. Florence was standing next to a microphone, which was bristling with wires. "Sorry. You've caught me at a rather inopportune time, I'm afraid," he said, trying to disentangle himself. "Er. Anyways," he continued, trying to be cheerful. "I'd like you to meet the band. I see you've already met Colin. He does the keyboards."

The threatening-looking man, still by the door, greeted him with a flat, "Wotcha."

"Yeah, about that-" began Mark, before being cut off by an unexpected and extremely firm handshake from a smiling man with greasy blond ringlets hanging lank from his head.

"'S nice to meet you, mate. Name's Thomas. I'm on the drums. And backup vocals."

"Right, yeah. I'm, uh, I'm Mark," he managed, whilst also trying to avoid having his hand mashed into a pulp. "Listen, Florence, why'd he-"

He was cut off again, this time by a man with dark skin, bottle-thick glasses, and a considerably less firm handshake than their drummer. "Hello, Mark, lovely to meet you. I'm Richard. I'm, uh, the lead guitarist. And only guitarist, actually."

Resigning himself to the fact that he'd never get a word in edgewise, Mark turned to the only person left ungreeted. He was a tall, gawky, olive-skinned man with an unfortunate goatee. "And I suppose you're the bassist?"

He smiled and shook his head. "No, I'm the harpist. Name's Lorne. Greg, that's our bassist, he's a bit busy today."

"Harpist," repeated Mark. "Well. Couldn't get a flautist on short notice, I suppose? You lot really are shooting for old-school prog-rock."

Florence gave a flattered smile. "We certainly try."

Mark took a sweeping look at their instruments. "You're doing well, by the looks of things. But, uh, Florence?"

The singer frowned. "What is it?"

"Colin seemed to be implying that we're seeing each other. And by implying I mean that he said that directly."

Florence frowned harder, this time more angry and less concerned. "Oh, god, did he? Terribly sorry. He just likes to make trouble."

"I don't," the keyboardist interrupted sharply. "You're the one what always starts things." "You see?" laughed Florence apologetically. He switched the microphone on laboriously. "Right. Chaps, if you'd be so good, let's take it from the top. Let Mark get a little musical sense. Start us off, Tom."


	4. I'm Counting Out Time

Fairly soon, Mark and Florence settled into into a rhythm of sorts. Lunch on Wednesdays, supper on Sundays, calls and texts whenever they felt it necessary. It was presently one of those Sundays, but it was a tad bit of a special one.  
Florence was waiting. He fidgeted nervously around in the leather cushioning of the restaurant booth. He considered himself both lucky and unlucky at once for managing to get a reservation at such an upscale place on such short notice. Lucky, because normally this place was fully booked, and unlucky, because that meant that he'd actually have to go through with his plan.

Florence almost always had a plan of action, which irritated some people. He reasoned that life being spontaneous and all could be nice, until someone got hurt, or you ended up with stranded with your useless friends in the middle of absolutely nowhere. He'd heard that that sort of thing tended to happen to people, but he'd never actually experienced it, because he had a plan. Of course, he wouldn't actually have to carry out his plan if Mark never showed up. He was in the middle of deciding whether he'd be happy or cross about this when Mark showed up.

"Crikey. Fancy place you've picked out. Are you sure we'll be able to afford it?"

Florence licked his lips nervously. "It isn't that expensive. Trust me. You've got more money that I have."

Mark shrugged and sat down. "Fair enough."

A waitress came by and poured them some water with impeccable politeness, so much so that they barely noticed her. To try to calm his racing mind, Florence had a look at the menu. "Hm," he mused aloud. "Steak or pasta... Steak or pasta..."

"Oh, just get the steak," insisted Mark. "It'll do you some good. I'll even pay for it. You don't look like you've had proper protein in a month."

Florence smiled ruefully. He was naturally very thin, but the fact that he was one of those people who could occasionally consider themselves too busy to eat didn't exactly help. "I'll pay for it myself. But I rather appreciate your concern." He fell silent for a moment. Oh, dear. How should he phrase it? He'd been going over his options for the past week, and still hadn't gotten any closer to deciding.

Mark looked at him slightly sideways. "You look distracted. Something bothering you?"

Florence looked up at him. "Yes. Well, not really bothering. Yes. No. Sorry." He sighed. "It's honestly rather difficult for me to tell you this, but..."

Mark's mind had immediately gone, running and screaming, into the nuclear bomb shelter. He could think of a few disastrous confessions one could make.

"Mark, I've been finding you inordinately beautiful these days. Should I be worried?"

Mark's eyes went wide. He was nerve-janglingly silent for a moment. "I don't think you should. I mean, is there any object to this?"

Florence shrugged. "Not on my end. It is, however, entirely in your corner as to whether you'd, er, reciprocate my feelings."

And then Mark did something somewhat unexpected. He began to laugh.

"Why are you laughing?" asked Florence, in a flat, cautious tone.

Mark looked up at him, grey eyes full of mirth. "Ohh... Florence. You wonderful, talented, intelligent, beautiful _idiot_. Yes, I 'reciprocate your feelings', not only that, I've known about said feelings since... well, since probably before you have."

Florence blinked, hard. He did it again. "Oh," he said eventually. He really hadn't planned for this. He thought he was at least alright at hiding his feelings.

Mark smirked good-naturedly at him. "Come on, cheer up. In case you haven't realised, I've just told you that I quite possibly love you. I'm at the very least romantically interested." There was another momentary hush.

"But, while we're on the subject, I've got a confession of my own." Florence also hadn't planned for this, so he just sort of decided, for once, to let things just happen. "I'm trans. Born a woman, to clarify. Not something I like to just go around telling people, but I think you should like to know."

Florence thought about this for a second. Well, that did explain a few things, but not very many. The only holdovers Mark ostensibly had was the set of his hips and his height, although that could easily be explained away as a lack of genetic luck.

Mark looked at him expectantly. "Well?"

He sniffed casually. "Well what? I don't care."

The older man smiled in relief. To anyone without an ideal situation going on in the trouser department, quite possibly the most important three words you could ever hear, outside of "I love you" would be "I don't care."

"Very good," he said cheerfully. "Now where's our server gotten to?"


	5. With You There to Help Me

Mark blinked groggily until he was at least slightly awake. Someone had been knocking on the door of his hospital room. "Come in," he groaned.

The door clicked open, and someone carrying a very large and cumbersome bundle tried not to bump it on the ceiling. That someone also turned the lights on, revealing himself to be Florence. He gave a brief "Hullo." The burden turned out to be a tangle of keyboard accoutrements, which swamped the keyboard itself.

Mark tried to sit up. "Dear Jesus, you're a sight for sore eyes."

"I didn't realise that the surgery affected your eyes as well," he deadpanned, rummaging around in the keyboard bag.

"Actually, it feels like it affected everything. You'd think that the pain would be mostly confined to the, er, groinal area, right?"

"I'm guessing that's not exactly the case, then?" Mark chuckled with a hysterical edge. "Oh, dear god, no. The entire lower two-thirds of my body is a mass of pure soreness. Can't walk. Can barely move, for that matter."

Florence winced slightly. "I'm guessing it was worth it?"

The older man sighed. "Not bloody well yet, it isn't. It's just carnage down there. I wasn't expecting anything else, mind you, but it is rather disconcerting to see it in person." He slumped back in his bed. "God, I hate hospitals."

Florence frowned to himself, setting up the legs of the keyboard. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"I'm pissing in a _bag_ , Florence! It _is_ as bad as all that!" He covered his face with his hands. "Uurgh. Sorry. I'm really out of sorts. You know."

The brunet nodded understandingly. "I'm sure. But what I'm doing here is a little relief." He glanced around the room. "Er. Do you think I'll get shouted at if I move this partition?"

Mark managed to sit up a bit. "Don't think so. What d'you need it for, anyhow?"

"To get changed behind." He brandished a bundle of cloth and sticklike bits as a sort of pass. "I'd like to do a bit of practical testing on this costume, it you wouldn't mind."

"I don't think I have to tell you that's wildly unnecessary, seeing as there's nothing you can cover up that I haven't seen."

Florence blushed reproachfully. "And I don't think I have to tell you that I value a bit of privacy."

Mark shrugged. "That is true. I'm just trying to save you a bit of trouble, is all."

"It isn't troublesome at all," came his voice from behind the screen. "I didn't want to go out in public with it already on, either. I'd get looks. You know I would." There was a shuffling of fabric, and a quiet clattering.

"So are you going to sing? What's going on?"

"Well," responded Florence, sounding a bit distracted, "we've got a concert up in Leeds next week, and, well, I know you aren't going to be out and about by then. So yes. I am going to sing for you."

"What are you going to sing, then? I take it you're going to do some new material."

"I am indeed."

There was a few more clattering noises. Mark tried to crane his neck upwards. "Are you done in there?"

"Yeah, just let me do up the zip."

He chuckled, and waited a moment. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," he began in an exaggerated announcer voice. "For tonight only, in this very hospital room, we are hosting an intimate revue staring the one, the only... Florence Whiting!"

Florence shuffled inelegantly out from behind the curtain. He had a sort of black and white jumpsuit on, which had a webbed appearance due to the silver fabric panels in between the arms and legs. He waved to the imaginary crowd, and stepped behind the keyboard. "Be warned, I'm not exactly the world's best keyboardists, in fact, I'm not really one at all. I've stolen Colin's Casio, which he'll probably shout at me for later, but this isn't the full instrumentation. So. Er. Yeah."

Florence cleared his throat curtly. "Now, er, this song is called Sonnet Fifteen, called so because it is a sonnet. Well, not a real sonnet, but it's got fourteen lines, so it's close enough. I haven't written fifteen of them, but I just thought it was a fairly good title. It's very medival, to be honest. We've sort of copied off of Jethro Tull's notes here."

"Boo! Get on with it!" shouted Mark good-naturedly.

Florence smirked, and played a few opening chords. "My love is the one who stays upon the ground, while all of us still escape and fly 'round," he sang quietly. "If he be an anchor, them I be a ship on the sea. And never, in all, has he asked too much of me." The chord progression took a turn for the major, and was filled out with the bass. "Oh, if fairness were water, he would stand out and brave the storm. Yes, and if strength were fire, in his company I would be forever warm." Florence avoided his gaze as he finished the second verse, and, subsequently, finished the song altogether.

Mark clapped graciously, the sound ringing in the empty room. "Bravo! Bravo, Florence!"

The younger man looked thoroughly embarrassed. "It really isn't very good. Of course, it's a lot better with the five-minute harp solo in the middle, but the lyrics are just... childish."

"Uh-huh. Explain to me how that was anything but amazing."

Florence frowned at him. "Amazing?" He shook his head, laughing quietly. "You're odd."


	6. Brush Back Your Hair (And Let Me Get to Know Your Flesh)

Mark sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with a corner of one of the sheets. It was bloody cold in there, which was made worse by the fact that he wasn't wearing a thing. He listened to the sounds of the shower running, quite loud through the thin walls. He even heard Florence singing. He couldn't help but smile a little. After he had gotten back from a minor tour of Europe a few days prior, he'd promptly announced that he never wanted to hear one of his own songs so long as he lived. Mark listened closer. "All that has plagued me shall fall and burn, and all that has been taken from me will be returned..." So much for that. The water shut off with a thump. Mark felt a little jolt of anticipation. He'd been waiting for quite a long while. Two months, in fact. That was when Florence had gotten on a plane to Budapest, and left him with nothing but a rather chaste kiss goodbye. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Trust Florence to dance around onstage, but to not want people to stare at them in the airport.

Still. The two months had passed without much incident, although there had been quite a few phone calls. Mark had gotten a promotion at work, and had been able to afford a new couch, bit, other than that, nothing had changed.

Mark heard some clattering and rustling. Nothing too extraordinary, but he was beginning to get suspicious. He'd flatly insisted that, even though it was Valentine's day, no one needed to do anything special. However, Florence got nervous around sex like chronic introverts get nervous around public speaking, and might've ended up gluing rose petals to his body out of panic or something.

The doorknob rattled. Mark sat at attention.

The door came open, revealing that Florence had worn precisely what Mark had wanted him to, which was absolutely nothing. He looked extraordinarily good. His long, dark hair fell against his skin like the night on the edge of the moon's disc. His eyes, similarly dark, were shadowed somewhat by the ridge of his brow. Somehow, he always ended up looking like he was pouting. His Adam's Apple bobbed in his throat.

"Um. Hullo."

It wasn't the most elegant of greetings. They spent a rather awkward few moments looking at each other.

"You look very nice," managed Florence.

"Thank you," returned Mark, slightly caught off guard. Florence never really did complements. For all the time he spent spouting poetry set to guitar riffs, he could never really bring much of it into the bedroom.

"I think you should know that you look stunning."

Florence turned his face away, almost sheepishly. "I think I look rather tired, but thanks anyhow."

"We-ell, if you're tired, then why don't you come to bed?" Mark tried quite hard not to waggle his eyebrows.

Florence gave him a scrutinising smile, and then sat down on the bed. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Mark whispered. The younger man's grin took on just the slightest of a devilish edge. "Rest assured, it's extremely likely."

Mark guided him back onto the pillows, and then situated his own naked, stocky bulk over Florence's more delicate one. He glanced down briefly.

"You're most definitely thinking what I'm thinking."

Florence's hooded eyes brightened sharply. "Am I ever."

With a hand pressed into the younger man's back, they brought their lips together, briefly enjoying one another's warmth. That being said, it wasn't long before Mark began to do what he set out to. Slowly, he moved his tongue in a series of caresses down Florence's neck, and onto the jutting shelf that was his collarbones. He moved down, further still, feeling the subtle imperfections and fine hairs on the milk-white skin under his sensitive tongue. The bones of his sternum and protruding ribs provided some rather interesting topography.

As Mark set about the soft valley of his stomach, Florence's breath began getting somewhat irregular, shuddering in places. His long, thin fingers grasped at the wide shoulders and short blond hair of his lover. Finally, Mark settled on one of Florence's jutting hip bones, and began, curiously, to suck on the angular protuberance. As he was doing this, his hand moved down Florence's back, which was especially soft and smooth. He left a trail of a slick liquid behind. Brushing against the butterfly shape of his hip, he slipped his hand around the modest swell of a buttock. Florence moaned very softly and sat up, with the assistance of Mark's other hand around his shoulders. He sat facing Mark, with one long, shapely leg slung around him.

Mark's mouth, having long abandoned his hipbone, was now focusing again on his mouth. Meanwhile, Mark's hand crept further along his cleft, feeling the pleasant curves in the skin, never wanting to let go. He could feel Florence's body tense in his arms as he slid a finger into the puckered opening.

"Are you alright?" he asked in a soft voice.

"Mm. Yes. Quite," was the reply, somehow even more hushed.

"Good. Ok."

A second finger followed subsequently, followed by a third. This did not come easily. Florence was practised, yet still nicely tight. He held Mark closer, having abandoned the snogging in favour of not biting any tongues.

"Do you think you can take any more?" He felt his lover nod tightly, with a tense "Mm."

"Are you sure?" This wasn't strictly necessary to ask, it was just that they hadn't done anything like this in a while.

"God yes," whispered Florence.

Hesitating a moment, Mark readjusted his hand, and slid the remaining digits in.

Florence cried out, his back arching.

"Are you absolutely sure you're alright?" asked Mark evenly.

"Yes! Yes! Now please stop talking and just get on with it!" breathed Florence.

Well, that sounded like a go-ahead if ever there was one.

Mark slowly worked his fingers in and out of the slick, smooth warmth, pouring lubricant on them as needed. Eventually, he built up a bit of a momentum, stretching him to the point where most of the pain and surprise had gone out of the noises Florence was making.

At one point, he grabbed ahold of Mark's unoccupied hand, and dragged it down to his stiff member. "Go on," he murmured. "Please."

Mark didn't oblige him. "You want to come already?"

"Please," he repeated wildly.

He considered it. "Well, if you insist."

"Oh, god, yes." The younger man let out a deep breath as Mark's hand left from within him and moved from back to front, still coated in slick. He traced teasing patterns up and down his shaft, playing tantalizingly with his head. His length fit mostly in Mark’s hand. White pre-come leaked from him. His back arched and stiffened as he spilled his release, white and thick, onto his own pale, thin chest, which heaved with breath.

"Oh," he sighed. "Ohh..."

His dark irises threatened to disappear beneath fluttering lids. He had mentioned being tired before, but now he had lost most of his desire to do anything but sleep. The keyword here being "most". He now saw Mark attempting to take care of his own erection, and immediately closed the gap between them and took it in his hands.

"Florence, what are you doing?" Mark managed.

"Returning the favour," he admitted blithely. "You're always there for me, and I want to be here for you."

"Well. Alright then. Yes, by all means," said Mark, gradually coming around to the idea. "Go ahead."

Florence grinned like he'd been caught doing something he was never supposed to be doing, and lowered his mouth down onto Mark’s length. His tongue mostly stroked the modest shaft. Florence's pale cheeks grew further flushed with blood.

He soon found himself thrust down onto the stiff member, being sort of directly aimed at it and nothing else. Its salty, slick tip was just touching the back of his throat.

Mark leaned back, balling his hands in Florence's soft, dark locks. Oh, yes. Now that was good. He didn't really have a tendency to give rather than receive, but it seemed that Florence knew precisely what to do with his mouth. He rolled his hips, thrusting as deeply as he could into the younger man's mouth. He felt his heartbeat hard below his hips, and reached his peak, cock twitching in time to his pulse.

Florence rolled off of him, smiling. "Did you enjoy that? Again, I apologise for the unexpected-"

Mark cut him off. Honestly, it was not that big of a deal, but he supposed everything could be a bit deal if you were such a perfectionist as he was. "Florence, come on. Most people actually enjoy spontaneity."

He sighed in tired satisfaction, and picked up a small cloth. "Here. Clean yourself up a bit, please."

Wordlessly, Florence proceeded to do exactly that. After leaving it in the laundry, he came quietly back to bed, slipping in under the covers.

Sighing contentedly, Mark pulled him close, trying to memorise the feeling of his warm, naked skin. Florence's long legs became entangled in his own, although, considering their gawkiness and length, this may well have been an accident. In short order, both of them fell soundly asleep.


	7. Together

The atmosphere was alive in the arena, as it tended to be at concerts. It was hushed, but hardly dead, as the band did a little tuning between songs.

Florence walked up to the microphone, presumably to tell a completely nonsensical story or read some poetry. Both of these things tended to be connected to the songs, and were meant as introductions. Mark knew this, because Florence had a tendency to text him late at night asking if they were confusing enough.

He cleared his throat politely. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began quietly, "I realise that, at this point, you are probably expecting me to sing you a nice little ditty about a mythical adventure, or some sort of societal allegory. However, tonight, I shall like to do something a little different." His voice was caught halfway between the odd manner of speaking that belonged to his stage persona, and the odd way of speaking that belonged to himself.

He looked around sweepingly at the crowd. "Precisely a year and a half ago, I discovered firsthand the structural instability of the block of flats formerly extant at the corner of Bishop Street and Greenwood Road. This I did by falling through the floor, or, rather, the ceiling, depending on your perspective." The crowd rumbled with laughter.

"I was midway through doing my makeup for a dress rehearsal, and, imagine my surprise when I landed in a gentleman's sitting room. He was also rather shocked." Mark felt a few eyes on him. Word got round when something that odd happened. Up on stage, Florence smiled to himself. "Now, this gentleman and I formed somewhat of a rapport in the months that followed. We became quite close."

"Well, that's one way of putting it," muttered Mark under his breath.

"We became a bit closer still, if you catch my meaning," said the younger man plainly. And then he did what Mark really did not expect him to. "Mark Verity!" he cried aloud. "Please come up to the stage. I'm terribly sorry, I realise it may be difficult."

It was. He was practically mobbed by onlookers, curious to see what the hell was going on. He was rather hazy on that point as well. There were stairs which went from the auditorium pit up onto the stage, thankfully. He moved out of reach of the crowd, many of whom were clearly drunk, and got onto the stage.

Florence threw an arm around his shoulder, beaming. He took a few bows, inexplicably. Mark just seemed to stand there with a slightly bewildered expression. "Now, Mark, do you have anything to say?" This was definitely the stage persona talking. He could never get how it was that the public stage seemed to be the place that Florence was least embarrassed by things. A microphone was thrust in his face.

"Um," he said blankly.

"Great, thank you, lovely," the singer finished for him.

Mark couldn't help but laugh out loud. "Have you got me up here just to torment me?" he asked into the microphone.

Florence was quiet for the space of a breath. "No." And then he dropped down onto one knee, brandishing a glinting little object in a neat, square-shaped box.

Mark covered his mouth, his eyes wide in surprise. The crowd, loving a good show, sort of collectively went "woah".

"Since the day we quite accidentally met, you have put up with my nonsense and rubbish in the most gracious way possible."

He took a deep breath.

"Could you possibly find it in yourself to humour me, and put up with it for a great deal longer?"

He was looking earnestly and directly at Mark, his dark eyes wide and determined. There wasn't a trace of irony or performativity in his voice.

"Mark Verity, will you marry me?" The crowd positively roared.

When they eventually quieted down again, Mark tried to collect his thoughts. He shook his head, and chuckled. "Get up, Florence, your costume's got so much ribbing in it you'll get stuck like that." Sheepishly, Florence got to his feet. The older man looked it him softly, with the moon in his grey eyes. "And that's a yes, by the way. I will."

An enormous cheer went up from the auditorium. Florence had an enormous grin on his face, but it was quickly becoming apparent he wasn't sure of where to go from there.

"Kiss him!" yelled a drunk heckler, although that could hardly be called heckling. Several other people, likely equally drunk, shouted out their agreement. Fairly soon, it gained momentum to the point where at least half the auditorium was chanting, "Kiss him! Kiss him!"

Florence shot Mark a look that just said, "I'm so sorry." Mark just smiled.

One particularly rowdy bloke, who clearly had no idea where he was and was just trying to get a little attention, yelled out "Snog the bastard!"

Florence broke down laughing.

So he did.


End file.
